Taking Care of John
by talonsandwings
Summary: Random short stories concerning the difficulties of living with Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock's genuine but sometimes problematic attempts to make it a little easier. No slash. T for security in future installments.
1. Narcolepsy

"_Sherlock wanted so badly to take care of John. He just didn't know how yet."_

_**Story collection concerning the nuances of Sherlock and John's daily lives. How problematic is it to join together such despairingly different companions? Where are the lines of compromise drawn? And who gets left short? Friendship/platonic partnership, possible angst to come. No slash, but plenty of bromance. Further installments…?**_

_**These characters are not and will not, sadly, ever be any possession of mine. They are the original creative property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and are currently being leased to the lovely Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**_

**A/N: This first chapter serves as as a bit of an intro. Future installments will most likely be longer/in a different format.  
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><p>1. Narcolepsy<p>

It wasn't at all uncommon for John to fall asleep while they were working a case. It didn't matter where they were, either: 221B, a restaurant, the back of a cab, an active crime scene. There had to be a breaking point somewhere. After days of chasing after Sherlock and his _damn _long legs, of being dragged back and forth across every corner of London, of not coming within five feet of anything resembling a mattress, a breaking point must eventually be reached.

Sherlock had paid witness to John's breaking point several times. Those occasions were imprinted indelibly on his precious memory space, for being delectable as well as horrid. Continuously operating alongside a calm, predictable, steady John made watching his occasional outbursts all the more delightful. It also made his rare (make that _very_ rare) breakdowns almost impossible to bear.

Once, he'd punched a suspect. Some time after that, he jacked a cab in order to follow a captive Sherlock. He'd sworn out an unsuspecting witness with surprising energy and creativity, though lacking any observable provocation.

But mostly, he just fell asleep. Sherlock couldn't help but blame himself whenever this happened. He'd be texting Lestrade at his desk, only to look up and find John knocked dead away in his chair, case studies spilling from his lap. They'd be traveling in a cab in broad daylight, and Sherlock would feel John's head tumble against his shoulder as he passed out. Once, he'd turned around at a murder scene to see John propped upright against a wall, snoring like a buzz saw.

He tried, he honestly did. He worked harder every week to make sure he stopped at least twice every day to get John something to eat. He did his best to refrain from grabbing John when he was on his way to bed, even if there was a family member who desperately needed to be questioned. He'd gone so far as timing their restaurant visits, just so he was sure John actually received his order before they rushed out again.

But he couldn't think about that stuff _all _the time. He was out of practice, having never made a habit of fussing over his own personal maintenance. Sometimes things slipped through the cracks.

That was all fine and good, of course, back when he'd been alone. Now, when something slipped through the cracks, John missed a meal. John got so dehydrated, he nearly passed out trying to walk up the stairs. John got a small stomach bug and ended up in bed for a week because he'd failed to address it for days.

Sherlock wanted so badly to take care of John. He just didn't know how yet.

But he was trying. And, when a Holmes sets his mind to trying, he inevitably succeeds.

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><p><strong>AN:** Good reviews are fun. Honest reviews are useful.


	2. The Violin

_**Whew, this turned into a long one. Finally got some direct narrative thrown into the mix. Tie-in to the common story thread occurs at the end. Promise!**_

_**These characters are not and will not, sadly, ever be any possession of mine. They are the original creative property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and are currently being leased to the lovely Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**_

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><p>2. The Violin<p>

When Sherlock first mentioned the violin, that apparently innocent day back at Bart's, John really hadn't been paying attention. Or, at least, he was too busy being shell-shocked by everything else about this man, who was frankly nothing less than bizarre, and hadn't immediately picked up on the details. He remembered now, of course. He remembered perfectly.

_"I play the violin when I'm thinking."_

Right. More like,"I play the violin when John's trying to sleep," or, "I play the violin when John brings a date over," or, "I play the violin when I adopt the malicious mentality of a five-year-old."

The second time the violin came up was the morning after the conclusion of the taxi driver case. John, to his eternal shock, had risen first, and was in the kitchen brewing his morning tea when Sherlock finally appeared, swathed unceremoniously in his faded blue bathrobe. Without so much as a word or an acknowledgement of John's presence, he made his way straight to the fireplace and took up residence in his chair. When John returned to his own seat with his tea, it was to find his flatmate curled up, feet wedged beneath him, delicately tuning the violin draped across his chest.

Needless to say, John was taken aback.

"Is that…a violin?"

"Yes."

"What's it for?"

"For _playing_."

"So…back at Bart's, you were serious? You actually play the violin?"

"Yes, obviously. This didn't seem so difficult for you to grasp _'back at Bart's'_."

His tone of voice made no attempt to match John's, but the doctor couldn't shake the feeling that he was being mocked. "Well, no. I didn't really know you properly."

"If you can't accept that I play the violin, your knowledge of me is obviously still far from perfect."

That morning, when a case was solved and a client was on her way and all was right with the world, John thought "the worst" about Sherlock was actually quite spectacular. In the course of a few hours he'd fingered his way through Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and Tchaikovsky, even obliging a few requests from John, whose novel soon lay forgotten. He watched in amazement, watched the same porcelain hands that had frisked a dead body not hours ago turn elegant and magnetic in the caress of an endless stream of notes. And all the time Sherlock lay there, draped across his chair like a well-sated cat, his head tipping back in perfect content. He played every piece with his eyes closed.

John had failed to remember the second, and perhaps the most important, half of Sherlock's introductory declaration.

_"I play the violin when I'm _thinking._"_

Looking back with his hard-earned new perspective, John thought that simple sentence sounded more and more like a threat.

The third, fourth, fifth, and virtuously every other proceeding time the subject of the violin came up, it was a bleeding nightmare. Bad case. _Screech. _Row with Mycroft. _Screeeeeeech._ Simple, unquantifiable boredom. _SCREEEEEEEEECH._

"Nice" playing, as John was quickly and repeatedly informed, didn't do a bloody thing. "Nice" playing was a waste of time. "Nice" playing didn't drown things out properly.

_Right,_ thought John, with a trembling jaw and a perfectly steady left hand. _Like my sanity._

In all honesty, when it came to John's occasional discomfort, Sherlock neither understood nor cared. Mostly because it was irrational; the truth of the matter was quite simple. Discordant, grating notes were the only things that did the job properly. They drowned out the worthless noise that pressed in from the rest of the world, that poured out from his over-busy brain. They obliterated conventional patterns and chased off all that was unimportant. Discomfort brought everything into focus.

This was the infallible reasoning that allowed Sherlock to carry on scratching vigorously at the strings, unconcerned, while John attempted to talk to his sister, girlfriend, or employer on the phone.

But then, there was Sherlock's private vow. The vow that he'd never spoken or written down or even thought about with complete personal candidness. He'd locked it away deep in his hard drive, mostly because it wasn't anyone else's damn business.

_I will take care of John._

It may have been the forty-third time. Or fifty-sixth time. Neither of them was bothering to keep the tally at that point. But this time, when the violin came out, it was different.

The case had been running on four days straight. Sherlock's early prediction had been two, maximum, so it'd become overlong by any stretch. As was becoming custom, they returned to the flat at an ungodly hour of the night, still mid-work, still caught in the middle of a lead, still vibrating imperceptibly from the adrenaline that was pumped into their veins on permanent time-release.

None of it made any difference to Sherlock. If anything, he felt better than he had in weeks. Fantastic. It was only after they'd shed their coats, only after John fell directly onto the couch with his shoes still on and box of takeaway still in hand, that he remembered.

_John._

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He'd missed something.

_What had he missed?_ They'd eaten (_they_ naturally meaning _John_) on the way back, Sherlock had made sure of that, despite the time it detracted from returning home to do research. John had been drinking from his coffee thermos all day, so he'd maintained a regular intake of fluids, though the number of bathroom breaks had been abominable.

He wasn't sick; he didn't show any of the standard symptoms. Again, Sherlock had been watching. He'd promised.

He'd been watching and nothing…

Oh.

The thermos. The _coffee _thermos.

_What day was it?_

Not taking his eyes off the couch, where John groaned and shifted slightly, still completely face-planted, Sherlock pulled his mobile from the pocket of his hanging coat and flipped to the calendar.

Tuesday. Very recently Tuesday. They'd begun on Thursday. Late.

_Four days._

_Had John slept?_

No. Sherlock knew for a fact that he himself hadn't gotten so much as a wink, which meant neither had John.

He shut off his phone without looking at it again, feeling the cold weight of failure close in on every side. It was an old enemy. But this particular brand, new with his acquaintance to John, always had an oddly sharp, bitter edge. Sherlock did not like it.

He put away the leftover food himself and settled down at his desk, not wanting to lose the flow of the case. But he was still very much aware of John, splayed pathetically across the couch.

"Go to bed."

"Hmff…what?"

"I said go to bed. It's been four days. You're no use to either of us delusional."

"Mmm'not delusional."

"You thought a lamppost was a hitman."

"Yeah, well, that was right after we'd dodged a hitman. And it was lurking behind that corner. Very suspect behavior."

"Are you accusing a lamppost of acting suspiciously?"

"It was a perfectly innocent mistake."

"You shot at it."

"Look, even if I wanted to sleep, I couldn't. And trust me, I want to."

"So do it."

"I _can't_, I'm too…it's all too much right now. There's no settling yourself down after nearly getting shot with four days of coffee in you. Might as well forget about it."

John migrated from his chair to the couch and back again, limbs sluggish, eyes bruised with exhaustion, every nuance begging for the unattainable peace. Sherlock tried to focus on his work, but John's movement, John's unease, John's restlessness, made it utterly impossible.

He was most certainly _not _taken care of.

When Sherlock abandoned his work and pulled out the violin, John caught sight of it from his chair. He cringed unconsciously as the knobs turned and the bow rose, ready for what he knew was coming.

A soft refrain floated into the room.

John looked up, stared at Sherlock. "What are you doing?"

"Playing."

Sherlock didn't need to ask. He played Bach, a particular concerto, the one that John asked for more than any of the others. John's favorite. Watching over the neck of the violin as he swept the bow over the strings, he saw the muscles in John's neck gradually relax, the grip of his hand on the armrest loosen. It took a very careful half-hour, but finally John's eyes fluttered closed. His chest began to rise and fall in the steady rhythm of sleep.

Sherlock carefully placed the violin back in its case. He went around the flat and shut off every light, even the one in the hall, until the only thing left glowing was his computer screen. He dug his robe out from behind the couch and gingerly, very gingerly, settled it over John. On him, it was long enough to be a blanket.

Sherlock stayed up until the sun rose the next morning and beyond, working with an unfamiliar level of absolute clarity.

John's tranquil breathing was his violin.

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><p><strong>AN:** Good reviews are fun. Honest reviews are useful.


	3. The Limp

**_Half of this chapter was typed on my iPod on the way to and during my morning class. My evil, conspiring finger then proceeded to accidentally delete everything I'd written, and I spent the subsequent study period frantically re-typing everything from memory. Hope it was worth it. _**

**_These characters are not and will not, sadly, ever be any possession of mine. They are the original creative property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and are currently being leased to the lovely Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss._**

**A/N:** To all those who responded so warmly to the first story: my sincere apologies for the delay. This installment proved to be much more labor-intensive than those previous. And longer. So much longer.

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><p>3. The Limp<p>

Before Sherlock had so much as learned John Watson's name, he knew the limp was psychosomatic. It wasn't lost on either of them that the thing had almost derailed any plans of moving into 221B Baker Street. The notion of life with Sherlock Holmes was sufficient enough as a complicating factor, but those _damn stairs._ They were absolute murder.

John took plenty of frustration and shame dealing with the leg in public. He didn't need a big fat bloody reminder of it every morning he got up to leave the house.

Of course, Sherlock soon fixed that.

It had, in fact, become something of a non-issue. John had stopped going to his therapist appointments months ago. Though reluctant, she'd been unable to offer any real objection; Doctor Watson appeared to have made a full recovery in every respect. No limp, no tremor, increased activity, improved mood. If anything, she was at a loss to explain how such a sudden change had occurred over so short a period of time. John did his utmost to avoid the subject and made sure to cut off contact very quickly.

Apparently, his therapist was one of the few people who had yet to read his blog.

His limp was most definitely the least of his problems at the moment. As if it weren't enough that Sherlock had acided-away most of the sink during an experiment ("Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you're supposed to be a _scientist_! Shouldn't you _know _when this sort of thing's going to happen?"), his sister had chosen this lovely time to completely lose her head. Again.

"No, Harry, no. That's not…You assaulted a man in the middle of the street. What did you think was going to happen?...Whether or not he knew you're gay isn't the point, it's still no excuse for flying off at him when he…Really? And how much did you have to drink that night?...Of course it's a fucking question, Harry!...No. You got yourself into this mess, you can damn well get yourself out."

Sherlock looked up from the financial records of his current client when John hurled his cell across the counter. "Problem?"

"No."

"You seem agitated."

"Do I?"

"You're usually a bit more particular about how you handle your appliances."

"I'm fine."

Sherlock would've been content to leave the subject there; any exposure to highly reactive personal situations tended to leave an unpleasant itching sensation in the back of his throat. But John's agitated state, carried throughout the rest of the evening and into the following day, was particularly disquieting. For Sherlock, the final blow fell when John rushed into action too early during that day's stakeout, nearly losing them the target. He'd even gone so far as to fire a clip of random shots in an attempt to compensate for his error.

Not like John. Not like John at all. Sherlock pulled him aside afterwards, waving away a disgruntled Lestrade as he attempted to approach them for statements.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, I'm fine!"

"No, but you are lying. Your sister's in jail and you have refused to offer assistance."

"How…"

"Oh, please. It hardly required deduction. You said she'd beaten a man. Based on the habits I already know she possesses and on the line of questioning you took with her, she was most likely drunk at the time. Knowing she's assaulted someone, I can also assume she's currently in jail. What could she possibly ask you for while in that position, other than bail money and a lawyer?"

"You do realize this is none of your business?"

"I know perfectly well. That's why I decided not to mention it."

"Right. Okay. Then what do you call this?"

"I apologize. Please allow me to edit myself: it _wasn't _my business, until your frankly unreasonable heightened emotional state began to threaten our work."

"We caught the suspect."

"Barely. I cannot allow this to go unaddressed, John. You must understand that."

"All I understand is that you need to fucking _sod off_!"

The next day, John's usually taciturn cell phone rang a total of seven times. Sherlock could only think that Harriet Watson was in possession of quite the forceful character; your average drunk couldn't convince the police to allow them _that _many attempts at contact.

John checked the caller ID when it first rang that morning but didn't answer, and allowed every other call to ring out before finally shutting it off near the end of the night. He didn't say a word to Sherlock all day, took two pills that he usually only used when his leg bothered him, and went to bed uncharacteristically early.

Sherlock was at a loss. Normally, whenever he found himself befuddled by interpersonal issues, his first and only instinct was to consult John. As this was not an option under the current circumstances, he went to Lestrade instead.

He was well aware that his asking Lestrade for advice was an indicator that he'd suffered some manner of a psychotic break. Perhaps he had. But the D.I.'s response was refreshingly concise:

"Do you like it when people bother you after you've had it out with your brother?"

"Of course not."

"Then think about how John feels. Just give him some blessed space, Sher. The man's got a whole life to worry about that's got nothing to do with you. At all."

Although he fell woefully short on the finer points of investigation and crime, Sherlock had to acknowledge Lestrade's expertise on personal matters.

Space. He would not have arrived at that conclusion on his own. But something most certainly had to be done; John's current level of distress was inexcusable. And, honestly, why should it be different than any other experiment?

The next morning, he left the flat before John had woken up. He sent him a text at 7:45, John's borderline robotic wake-up time.

**Gone out. Lead on new case that must be addressed. Back before midnight.**

**SH**

And again, five seconds later:

**Maybe longer.**

**SH**

The process was a familiar and unexpectedly uncomfortable one. In the weeks following that text, Sherlock took up three cases on his own. He didn't send John to follow up on a single lead. He met all his clients at Scotland Yard instead of Baker Street, so that John wouldn't have to deal with it. He didn't pull John out of bed when he made a breakthrough in the middle of the night.

And it was _hateful_. But John needed his rest. John needed his _space. _It was a meager sacrifice, but it was the only thing Sherlock knew how to offer. All he had to give.

But he found that John was oddly…necessary. He was reliable, and certainly better at delicacy. This became quite clear to Sherlock in the midst of his second case, when he suspected he'd said something unintentionally offensive to a witness. At least, that was the only probable explanation as to why the woman had thrown her scalding coffee on him, marched off, and refused to be of any further assistance.

As Sherlock termed it, and as John told him it was probably better not to say in public, John was "good at doing people". He picked up on the things that Sherlock missed. He addressed the things Sherlock neglected.

Like the possibility of an ambush.

On the third case, Sherlock had gone to meet a perfectly normal civilian informant. The puzzle, at least in his head, was already solved. His conclusions were infallible, his line of inference flawless. Not a chink. Not a crack. He'd considered every conceivable probability.

Hence why he found himself somewhat unprepared when four men appeared and immediately assaulted him. Of course, he instantly knew where they'd come from, how they'd traveled, and who they were working for. There are ample opportunities to observe a subject in detail while he's got you in a stranglehold.

_Too clever, too late._

Sherlock's first thought was that John would instantly be on the second man, so long as he hadn't already been incapacitated. If he was unable to shake his own assailant, all he had to do was hold off asphyxiation until John had a chance to reach him.

In the real world, all three men were on top of him in seconds. John wasn't there.

He was unarmed. Whenever he brought a gun on their regular cases, it was always for John.

_No John. No John._

By some miracle, and with the assistance of some very rusty martial arts, he managed to escape. Barely. To his utter disdain, he went to NHS to get patched up before returning to Baker Street, so the supplement of a little acting could hide his injuries from John. He never spoke of the incident to anyone.

It was around this time that Sherlock began to suspect that he wasn't the only one guilty of withholding information. Their time together in the flat was limited nowadays, and what conversations they did have in passing were much briefer and curter than what had once been typical. And yet, John still managed to betray it all.

He'd been going on regular dates with Sarah for the first week and a half, and had then begun the slow decline of more and more time spent alone in the flat. The amount of rubbish in the waste-bin and the newly use-polished buttons on the television remote told him that much.

His hand tremor was back. At first, this was only speculation based on a few scraps of observation: John had started holding his books up with his right hand alone, where he'd previously taken the easy route and just used both. He kept it in his lap more often, almost never placing it on an armrest where Sherlock could get a good look.

When army-trained, balanced, methodical John suddenly lost control of his food tray and sent spaghetti splattering over every vulnerable surface in the kitchen, not a doubt was left in Sherlock's mind.

All the evidence appeared to be leaning against Lestrade's hypothesis. But then, Sherlock couldn't be sure of the exact source of John's rapid decline. For all he knew, the business with Harry was still unresolved and could very easily be placing him in a state of elevated stress. He could assume nothing.

That, of course, was before Sherlock properly understood the gravity of the situation. John's voice woke him the morning after the conclusion of his third case. It reverberated down from the upper floor, calling his name over and over, the spaces between the shouts ringing with indecision and reluctance.

Sherlock arrived in John's room to find him sitting upright in bed. The pattern of folds on his sheets suggested that he'd woken up, flipped the covers off as if making to get out of bed, and then flipped them back on again.

"Sherlock, my…cane is downstairs. Could you get it for me? I can't…I mean, I'm having a little trouble…"

He rolled his head down, looked out the window. His voice was dry. "Walking."

Sherlock didn't react. He was very careful not to react. "Where is it?"

"By the fireplace. I think. I don't know, I wasn't…I wasn't really keeping track."

It was, in fact, propped against the wall right next to the bricks. Dust had collected on the handle. Sherlock methodically brushed off the cobwebs and carried it back up to John with no comment beyond: "Can you make it down the stairs?"

"Yeah, yeah. Yes. Definitely. Um…thanks." He held up the cane with one hand, but Sherlock still saw the way he reflexively clutched at his right thigh with the other. "You know…for this."

"Not a problem."

Sherlock considered it an extraordinary stroke of good fortune that his case had ended the night before. By the time John came downstairs, accompanied by that awful, staggering jerk of a step, Sherlock had firmly entrenched himself on the couch. Case files. Maps. Police records. An entire library of excuses not to leave John alone. Though John was clearly surprised that Sherlock hadn't already dashed out on some errand or another, he said nothing.

Not once in the course of that day did Sherlock ever completely remove his attention from John. Very flatly, he called Sarah early in the morning and cancelled the plans they'd made for that night. He never left the flat. Most of the time, he stayed seated, avoiding anything that would require moving or standing. When he was forced into these situations (for example, to use the bathroom), Sherlock saw the way his face clenched when it turned to the cane a split second before he picked it up.

Sherlock didn't move from the couch all night. The next morning, John lurched unevenly down the stairs with the cane still in hand.

In Sherlock's opinion, that was quite enough data. He could not allow this to continue. He _would not_ allow this to continue.

Admittedly, he had been unprepared for this particular turn of events. Sherlock never imagined he could shirk his duties by giving John _too much _space. No matter. Hypotheses were made to be rewritten.

That morning, he told John about his new case. A serial killer playing copy-cat to Jack the Ripper. Two policemen had already been assaulted on the job, one left seriously injured. Very dangerous.

When John agreed to go with him, he purposefully didn't act eager. Sherlock purposefully showed no response. They both went straight for their coats.

"Where are we headed, exactly?"

"Crime scene. It's the fifth victim so far. Well, the fifth one they've found."

"You think there're more?"

"Almost certainly. The police were hesitant to declare serial killer this time. I suspect that's why Lestrade was so slow calling us in."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I've never turned Harry down before. We never get on, but when she does something ridiculous…well, I usually help. That was the first time."

"Siblings are problematic, John. I can understand that as well as anyone."

He handed John his gun. John slipped into the waistband of his jeans, flipped beneath his coat. As they left, Sherlock lagged back to watch as he went down the stairs first. And smiled.

John limped right up to the fist step, clutched the cane in his hand, and skipped down without once touching stick to tread.

"You coming?"

Sherlock obliterated the smile and closed the door behind him. "Of course."

Sometimes, what John needed more than food or sleep or even peace was Sherlock Holmes.

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><p><strong>AN:** Yes, I am aware that "acided" isn't technically a word. Mycroft up next, once the story finally resolves itself into something writable. Thank you so much for all the responsive reviews. Please continue! (and don't be shy with the chapter suggestions, either)


	4. Mycroft

**_It isn't every day you acquire a flatmate who's tagged for grade three government surveillance. Also, feisty!Sherlock is a wonderful creature._**

**_These characters are not and will not, sadly, ever be any possession of mine. They are the original creative property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and are currently being leased to the lovely Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss._**

**A/N: **Tried to dial it back to the short and sweet. I'd also like to restate the indispensable nature of reviews.

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><p>4. Mycroft<p>

When he first met Sherlock, John resolved himself to the fact that they would never have anything in common. John was neat, Sherlock was habitually messy (although his appearance was always impeccable; John had yet to puzzle that one out). John was polite, Sherlock very often careened right over the boundary of what one might normally call "rude". John was empathetic, Sherlock was apathetic. John was a giver, Sherlock was unconsciously a bit of a taker (unbeknownst to John, Sherlock _was_ making slight progress on this front).

But there was one thing, just one thing, where they both stood on completely equal footing. John realized this when Sherlock burst through the door one day, his hands braced against either side of the frame, and declared in a dull growl:

"I loathe my sibling."

John smiled, intuitively tossing Sherlock an open box of nicotine patches. "Don't worry. So do I."

It had taken John an embarrassing amount of time to see this common streak, mostly because it was almost impossible to picture Sherlock with a brother. It seemed so..._normal_. An arch-enemy was much more believable, and probably more likely. But when he stopped and thought about it, he realized the commonality had actually been at work for some time. It was one of 221B's unspoken rules:

No. 42: It is not acceptable to use John's cell phone to text street contacts (he'd answered enough awkward phone calls from "reformed" drug dealers while out with Sarah).

No. 57: No storing body parts above the middle shelf of the fridge, as preserved articles on the top have a tendency to drip.

No. 73: Neither tenant may mention the other's sibling.

While this was the only rule both flatmates faithfully adhered to, it was by no means bulletproof. Whether Sherlock and John liked it or not, their families had ways of asserting their continued existence. Harry imposed herself through her sporadic inebriated phone calls and all too common legal difficulties. Mycroft imposed himself through Sherlock's cases at every opportunity.

The need to avoid these unwanted intrusions bound both men in a sort of mutually-pitying camaraderie. It had occurred to Sherlock more than once that this single thread of similarity was responsible for bringing them together in the first place.

_Two grown men, each with considerable resources available, strike out in search of a flatshare. Why? _

_Because they both want to forget that they have families._

Before long, the flatmates found themselves running interference for one another. Without Sherlock's asking, John would field a call from Mycroft or begin a job that he'd somehow maneuvered them into taking. On days when Sherlock was in a particularly childish mood, John would answer the door while he pretended not to be at home. Of course, Mycroft could tell that Sherlock was in the house the moment he laid eyes on John, but he usually didn't have the motivation or patience to attempt a rush on the flat.

That always struck John in the oddest of ways: the world's only consulting detective slinking off to his room to hide from his big brother.

Sherlock thought it only fair to reciprocate these favors. He learned to shut off John's phone when it buzzed Harry's number at all hours of the night (apparently, the woman was unaware that John ever slept). When Harry got herself into trouble, and Sherlock could always tell when this was the case, he very unassumingly passed money to John to help clear up the problem. At first, John had resolutely refused this charity, but his rather modest paycheck went on to save them the rent more than once.

Sherlock was definitely more useful when it came to large sums of immediately available money, but John was just as useful when it came to a constant supply. Consequently, he learned to accept Sherlock's "gifts" just as inconspicuously as they were offered.

Unfortunately, there was one misfortune from which Sherlock was incapable of sparing John, no matter how dearly he wished it. And that was the fact that their apartment was riddled with enough surveillance equipment to trump the MI6 Building.

What was perhaps even more unfortunate was the fact that Sherlock had forgotten to mention this to John until he found a lens in the DVD player.

"Sherlock, is that…a _camera_?"

"Hm? What?"

"Here, in the TV set. There's a lens. Look."

"Oh, yes, I suppose there is. Odd. I doubt I missed it on my last sweep. Mycroft must've placed it there recently."

"_Mycroft_?"

"Obviously. Or is there someone else you have in mind who would covertly place surveillance equipment in our flat?"

"Surveill…Sherlock, we're under bloody _surveillance_?"

"Yes. Level three and active, I believe. Did I forget to mention?"

Admittedly, this had demanded a bit of an adjustment on John's part. For the first few weeks cohabiting with Sherlock, he'd gone around in perpetual fear of sleeping in anything but full clothing. When he became particularly paranoid, he even found himself changing behind his door.

He knew Mycroft had no legitimate reason to keep cameras in his room, but then, there was also no reason for that damn fool umbrella. If John could count on the Holmeses for one thing, it was their unpredictability.

Although he had little experience with it, Sherlock did his utmost to make up for the…uniqueness of their living arrangements. At John's vehement requests, he carried out his usual bug searches with more diligence and regularity (ironic, as this was the one point in his life that he had almost nothing to hide; no cocaine, no nothing, just John). He gave John a list of key phrases _not _to say while on the landline, many including references to criminals and drugs, in order to decrease the likelihood that the call would be studied.

John thought it said quite a lot about their lives when he was unsurprised to receive a government-level signal scrambler for Christmas.

Although John wasn't aware of it at the time, Sherlock meant the last one as a bit of a joke. He took John's discomfort quite seriously, but was also convinced that there wasn't much to it. Mycroft's interest had always been in Sherlock's affairs, not John's. The flat was a hot spot because _Sherlock_ lived there. Common areas and devices, such as the main room and the phone, would naturally be sources of concern, but John himself really had nothing to fear.

Or so Sherlock thought. That particular theory would be one of the many that failed him.

It was one of those rare occasions that _Sherlock _was fetching _John's _phone. As his hand fished in John's coat pocket, he stopped.

John looked up from his laptop. "Sherlock? What's up?"

Sherlock pulled his hand out quickly, tossing the phone to John. "Nothing."

Later that night, long after John's footsteps had faded up the stairs, Sherlock grabbed his coat and spread it out on the ground, pulling open every pocket and flipping open every corner.

There were a total of three tracking devices. Sherlock tore apart the closet, searching John's trainers, jackets, boots. Every single article of clothing was lojacked.

In relatively little time, John's cellphone was lying in pieces on the kitchen counter. Sherlock straightened, staring in disbelief at the recording device that was pinched between his tweezers.

_When had Mycroft gotten hold of John's phone?_

_FAILURE, FAILURE, FAILURE._

It felt like an alarm inside Sherlock's head. How had he missed something this obvious? How the _hell _had he not known? It actually caused him physical discomfort, thinking of earnest John, sacrificing John, _honest _John, slid under the microscope of a poor excuse for humanity like Mycroft.

Sherlock had never understood the usefulness of the term "violated". Now, he felt as though he could write an entire anthology on the subject. He had always viewed his brother's attempts at interference as nothing more than superficial annoyances. Now, it felt as though Mycroft had declared war on his heart.

Brilliant. Now he was using words like _heart._

This had to stop.

When Mycroft arrived in his office the next morning, it was to find Sherlock reclining in his chair, feet propped on the desk. Mycroft didn't question how he'd gotten in or why he was there. Both brothers knew each other well enough for the conversation to be sufficiently short.

"On the off chance that I have yet to achieve this, I'll make myself perfectly clear. John is off limits. You will not tap John's cell. You will not bug John's room. You will not lojack John's clothes. You may do the aforementioned things to me whenever you please, if that's what you need to get your juvenile glimmer of satisfaction, but you will _not _do them to John."

"And why should I do that?"

"Because he's got a life, you meddling bastard. And plenty of it has nothing to do with me. So do yourself a favor and stay out of his business, before I make it _my _business to _keep _you out of it. Have I expressed my terms plainly?"

"Yes, I believe you have."

"Excellent. Goodbye, Mycroft. I hope you have a lovely day."

When Sherlock returned to the flat at noon, John showed little to no surprise at his absence or sudden reappearance. What he couldn't quite figure, though, was why Sherlock seemed so happy. He was actually _smiling._

"Oh, it's nothing," said Sherlock when John asked about it. He watched as John put away his lunch, pulled on his coat, laced his shoes into perfect knots. Slipped a perfectly reconstructed cellphone into his pocket.

No one would be tracking John. No one would be listening to John. It was absolutely charming to think about. Of course, this meant that even Sherlock couldn't locate him if he wanted to, but Sherlock discovered he was just fine with that. So long as John was free. So long as some part of John was still untouched, still completely and totally _him._

Sherlock found that he was growing increasingly protective of this piece of John.

This was the first time John had been completely unaware of a problem that was caused, and fixed, by Sherlock. And Sherlock had never felt so satisfied.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Only about a week or two of writing, and this series has already succeeded in completely draining me. In order to avoid any jumping of the shark (unless, of course, that's already happened), I'm going to take a break from regular updates until a new idea gives me plenty of juice. Although I can't guarantee they'll all get used, topic suggestions never hurt anybody. Thank you for reading!


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